


Given with the Best of Intentions

by Mohini



Series: Ghosts [15]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: AU - College, AU - foster family, Drug Use, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, alcohol use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2019-12-30 02:25:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18306296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mohini/pseuds/Mohini
Summary: This was going just as well as all her good ideas. All of them. James doesn’t learn from experience. He needs to learn his lessons on repeat.





	1. Chapter 1

Getting Steve drunk seemed like a perfectly reasonable thing to do with their Friday night. The only snag was that he wasn’t the one Steve asked to get him there. That would be Tasha. Hell on wheels, all the high, all the drunk, all the fucking time Tasha. She assured him that she had a plan. That might have been the right time to back out of any involvement with the flying circus, but no, James doesn’t learn from experience. He needs to learn his lessons on repeat.

Case in point, the current plan. Steve is a cuddly drunk. It’s not a thing that surprises James, but the _really_ cuddly, draping himself over Tasha’s shoulder as though he doesn’t outweigh her by a hundred pounds, asking why the floor keeps moving version is a bit much. Even Tasha is looking a bit unnerved by it, and she’s been known to be vicious when she hits the end of how much touch she can tolerate.

“Steve? You wanna go outside for a bit?” James tries, a hand on Steve’s shoulder and thumb rubbing circles in attempt to distract him from his current obsession with petting Tasha’s hair. If she’s popping pills while she’s allegedly in charge of operation get Steve toasted it’s going to end well. Really, really well. Bit like most of her good ideas, really.

“I like it here,” he shoots back, and he nuzzles Tasha while he does it. She looks murderous. Also a bit like she needs more of whatever she’s popping if Steve’s going to survive the night.

“I think Tash likes it less than you do,” James tries again, this time wrapping his hand around Steve’s shoulder and tugging him upright. That leads to a stumbling step backwards and both James and Tasha grabbing for him to keep him on his feet.

Steve looks at him, confused, and drops his head to James’ shoulder.

“S’ry,” he mumbles. It’s not exactly slurring, more just missing pieces. James looks at Tasha with eyebrows raised. Drunk is one thing, but this does not sound like drunk.

“Xanax,” she says, as though that’s a perfectly reasonable thing to say.

“You dosed my boyfriend with Xanax?” James sputters. Seriously, he left the pair of them unsupervised for all of a ten-minute period while he went to feed the meter. Hazard of downtown bars. No parking and overenthusiastic towing companies.

“He was sad.”

That, at least, makes sense. Tasha’s response to any emotion on either end of the spectrum is a pill, a powder, or a bottle of something vodka scented. He’s been on the receiving end of her helpful efforts. Not that he minds. Nothing wrong with a little chemical assistance once in a while. But throwing benzos into the mix for Steve’s maiden voyage into the land of really drunk might be a touch more than was strictly necessary.

“Sad?” Steve asks, picking up on the exchange a little on the late end. James tries to add of the drinks he’s seen him down and comes up blank. Tasha was giving him something in the car on the way into town, explaining the concept of pregaming to him like he was in need of a basic tutorial on how to be a person. Maybe he did, since James is also coming up blank on the number of times he’s seen Steve anything more than slightly tipsy. He knows there have been several mixed drinks, including something called Nightmare Fuel because why not. It’s a favorite of Tasha’s, a lethal combination of vodka and something sugary.

“You’re not sad now, right love?” Tasha prompts, her voice shooting up to a pitch generally employed by preschool teachers.

“Feel nice,” Steve replies, nodding emphatically to illustrate exactly how fucked they are all going to be in the hopefully distant future. He’s 200 pounds of near solid muscle and James is willing to pray to gods who haven’t been worshipped since the fall of Rome if it will get them home before whatever is in his system takes full effect.

“I think we should go home,” Tasha suggests, picking up on the vibe of things heading downhill soon. “Watch a movie? It’s getting crowded in here.” She glances around at the darkened space, bodies crowding the room and music reverberating off the walls. It’s a club. They’re crowded by design, but she employs her very best get her way from everyone expression and Steve smiles a bright, blitzed grin.

“Wh’tever you want, sweetheart.”

Tasha blanches. That’s James’s name for her. And only his. Steve’s too far gone to notice, and Tasha takes a long, slow breath before biting her lower lip. It’s reassuring proof that she’s a little high but still present enough to stay grounded. James has a feeling he’s going to need her help before the night’s up. She takes Steve’s hand and tugs him along beside her, reaching back to grab James’s hand as well.

They’re out of the club and into the cool night air of early springtime when the first snag in operation get home before things go wrong hits. Steve stumbles over an uneven bit of concrete and since he’s on the other side of Tasha it’s not possible to grab him before he yanks her off balance and into a bike rack. The pair of them bounce against metal with a resounding clang. Tasha’s back on her feet almost immediately, but Steve hits the sidewalk in a heap of uncoordinated limbs.

“I fell down,” he tells them, smiling like an idiot.

“Fuck,” Tasha mutters.

“That you did,” James says, shaking his head as he hauls Steve back to his feet. He gauges the distance to the car, hoping the two remaining blocks are manageable. Retrieving the car and coming back for them is an option, but no one he wants to use. Steve’s much bigger than Tasha and though she’s unlikely to spook with him, it’s still not a risk James wants to take.

He loops his arm around Steve’s shoulders, holding him close enough to keep him on his feet in case of further sidewalk issues. Two blocks aren’t that long. He can definitely haul his drunk boyfriend that far. He glances at Tasha to check on her and finds that she’s pulling something out of a pocket and putting it to her lips. Being yanked down by mister uncoordinated couldn’t possibly have been fun. Tasha can hold her chemicals. So it’s fine. Probably. Hopefully.

Two blocks make a very long distance when navigating them with Steve forgetting how his feet work. The third time he stumbles, Tasha grabs one of his arms and slings it over her shoulders before proceeding to tell him which foot to move in succession for the remainder of the walk. It’s ridiculous, and would be hilarious if not for Steve’s increasing distress at his loss of control over his body. Tasha picks up on the issue immediately, and adds in a stream of reassurances that everything is fine, that this is normal, and that he needs to relax and let himself drift. That last bit doesn’t seem to register, and if it does, it doesn’t sit well at all.

Steve mumbles something about not being his fucking father and that’s when James remembers that he’s only ever heard of old man Rogers in the vaguest of terms. Things like a mention of him in a recounting of family holidays and such. Even James, who grew up in a long series of not homes, has more memories of his biological contributors than that.

Tasha connects the dots about the same time he does, and is right there with a calm assurance that none of them are their fucking parents and that Steve needs to stay here and now for a bit. He nods and mumbles that he’s sorry.

“Nope. Not apologizing for being human tonight, dumbass,” she shoots back. “We’re going to get you home, watch a movie, and be nice and fucked up together. Now walk. Car’s right there.”

Steve nods, and shuffles obediently the last few yards to the car. Despite Tasha’s usually obstinance regarding the front seat and her absolute right to it, she’s the one who directs Steve into what they’ve all come to think of as her seat. She buckles him in like a toddler and closes the door, sliding into the seat behind him and leaning forward with a hand on Steve’s shoulder. Grounding him in exactly the way she prefers from James. Present. But not pushy.

Home isn’t far, just ten-minute drive from the center of town. Ten minutes are very long when they’re full of Steve muttering about how he’s never doing this again as Tasha turns steadily more grey in the backseat. By the time they pull into the drive, she’s breathing in long, slow breaths and closing her eyes for ever increasing periods. There really, really isn’t time to deal with a carsick Tasha and a blitzed Steve. Not that it matters how much time there is.

“This is a fucking nightmare,” James grumbles.

“I’ve had better nightmares. Give me ten,” Tasha growls at him, stalking toward the front door and disappearing into the house. James weighs the options of going after her or waiting with Steve. He decides that of the two of them, Steve’s probably the one less equipped to handle himself.

When she returns, her eyes are a little red but she’s no less pale than usual and steady on her feet.

“Alright, let’s get our boy in the house,” she orders, opening Steve’s door and releasing the buckle.

“M’na your boy,” Steve whispers, and the breathy quality of the words is less drunk than frightened. James is well on his way to wondering just what exactly he doesn’t know about this man he loves. He’s never seen even a hint of trauma reaction out of him. Certainly nothing like what he sees in Tasha or himself. He has no idea if Steve does quiet panic or a full out fight. 

“Steve? Whatcha thinking about?” James asks, prompting Tasha away from him with a gentle nudge against her hip. She doesn’t need further explanation and steps well clear of the pair of them, hurrying ahead to hold the door open.

“S’okay,” Steve replies, but his eyes have gone too far away from those words to hold even a hint of truth.

“In vino veritas,” Tasha recites, her voice soft and gentle but somehow ominous as well. Truth can be a tricky thing, especially when it comes to the kind found in a bottle.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. On Survival

To live is to suffer,

To survive is to find some meaning in the suffering.

                ~ Friedrich Nietzsche

 

The class is a requirement. It ought to be the easiest thing on his load for the semester. Maybe it would be, if he could stop thinking so hard about everything. Meaning? What the hell is that supposed to be? What great cosmic need could there possibly be in growing up with a father who was less of a role model than the one James refers to as a biological contributor? What brilliant enlightenment does that knowledge being front and center do for any of them? He hadn’t made any secret of his childhood, but it wasn’t a thing they put much energy into examining either. Besides, if James could survive growing up bouncing from home to home, ship out, and come home not exactly in one piece, surely Steve could avoid whining about dear old dad knocking him around on the wrong side of a bender.

He blames Tasha and her little shiny bottles. The kid never seems to be without them. James warned him against letting her have more than two at a time, and when he tried to follow through with that instruction Tasha laughed in his face.

“Oh sweetie, that’s cute,” she told him. “I could have a half dozen and walk a line just fine. My brilliant brother’s a little behind on current events.”

She proceeded to demonstrate the truth of that one, knocking back little bottles of vodka until her eyelids finally drooped and she curled up like a cat on one of the beds in a hastily arranged hotel room.

When they got home from that adventure, he asked her to show him what the appeal was. She obliged. Enthusiastically. He’s not as much of a lightweight as he had feared, but what he is, apparently, is a very cuddly, very introspective crybaby. There were pills. There was puking somewhere in the mix, and there was a hangover that hurt enough he’s definitely not trying for a second go.

“What did Nietszche do to you?”

It’s an effort not to snap at Tasha. She means well. She almost always means well. Slipping sedatives to James when he looks the slightest bit tense, downing pills of her own when the wind blows the wrong way, knocking back her little vodka bottles because small ones are okay and big ones are not. Even if the quantity is probably the same either way. James says it’s because the little ones are easier to hide. Steve thinks it’s because they’re not supposed to know she refills them from a huge one under the sink.

“Steve?”

She’s kneeling in front of him now, and he doesn’t know when she got so close. One hand is outstretched, but far enough away not to touch without permission. She’s like that. With James. And with him now, he supposes. Cautious. Respectful. Gentle. Steve doesn’t want to be treated gently. He wants her to not know. He wants drunken confessions to be subject to retraction.

“Survived,” he grumbles. It’s not an answer. Or maybe it is.

She cocks her head a moment, moves over enough to see the text, and her eyes rake over the paragraph.

“Ah, yeah, that one. Ask James about it sometime. He has opinions.”


End file.
